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You are encouraged to participate in any way that is meaningful to you.~
All prompts beneath the photos are only suggestions. You are free to use the photo to be inspired to write any way you desire. ~ There is no deadline on posting, you may offer your writing to any prompt anytime.~Write and you are a writer.

“You know, everybody thinks there's lots of exciting things to see up on a building, but really there's not. I mean, people walk by, sure, but after the first week or so, maybe the first year, you've really seen it all. Everything after that is just variations on the same behavior. People really aren't that interesting. But they're better than the pigeons.” He paused to take a swallow of beer.

The bartender nodded sympathetically as he polished a glass. “Tell me about it, brother.”

“Well, I will tell you about it. The pigeons just eat and sleep, and when they're not doing that, they're making droppings on my head. At least people don't do that.” He paused again. The bartender bent down for another glass. “But there was this one time.”

This time, the pause was expectant. The bartender looked up. This was different. The gargoyle came in about once a week, when the bar was empty, always moaning about the boring life up on the corner of the church. Not once had he ever hinted at something odd he had seen. Maybe it was the extra beer he had had tonight. The gargoyle seemed satisfied with the bartender's response, and continued.

“Yeah, one night I was sitting up there, and all of a sudden the manhole cover in the middle of the street started clanking and then it lifted up. I could see hands holding it up, and a man's head appeared underneath. I heard, 'Ah, no, man, this ain't the bank.' The head disappeared, and the cover clanked down, and in the morning the bank was all in an uproar. All the money had been stolen from the vault in the night, and there was no trace of the theives. I've never seen anything like it before or since.” He lifted his mug and drained the beer. He stood up. “I better get back before morning. Thanks, pal.” He turned to the door of the bar.

“Wait!” The bartender had never stopped the gargoyle before, but he had to know.

The gargoyle turned back in the doorway. “Yes?” Somehow it had an ominous sound, and the bartender wondered if this was such a good idea. He asked his question anyway.

“Why didn't you report what you'd seen?”

The gargoyle laughed. “Me? Report it? Who would listen? No one thinks I'm alive besides you. You're the only one in the whole town, and I'm lucky you take payment for beer in dead pigeons. Me? Report it?” He went out the door, chuckling.

One week after the photo or picture is posted I will pick one offering to put beneath the image. This is a way of celebrating exceptional creativity. Any and all posts are available for your creative mind to make an offering at any time (even ones where a writing has been placed on the front page like this one). If you are new here and want to offer to every image here, feel free. We are writers, WRITE! If this is your exceptional writing posted here on the Front Page Pictures, Poetry & Prose invites you to include the Exceptional Writing Award Button on your blog. Visit the Exceptional Writing Award post for the details and the button to download.

“You know, everybody thinks there's lots of exciting things to see up on a building, but really there's not. I mean, people walk by, sure, but after the first week or so, maybe the first year, you've really seen it all. Everything after that is just variations on the same behavior. People really aren't that interesting. But they're better than the pigeons.” He paused to take a swallow of beer.

The bartender nodded sympathetically as he polished a glass. “Tell me about it, brother.”

“Well, I will tell you about it. The pigeons just eat and sleep, and when they're not doing that, they're making droppings on my head. At least people don't do that.” He paused again. The bartender bent down for another glass. “But there was this one time.”

This time, the pause was expectant. The bartender looked up. This was different. The gargoyle came in about once a week, when the bar was empty, always moaning about the boring life up on the corner of the church. Not once had he ever hinted at something odd he had seen. Maybe it was the extra beer he had had tonight. The gargoyle seemed satisfied with the bartender's response, and continued.

“Yeah, one night I was sitting up there, and all of a sudden the manhole cover in the middle of the street started clanking and then it lifted up. I could see hands holding it up, and a man's head appeared underneath. I heard, 'Ah, no, man, this ain't the bank.' The head disappeared, and the cover clanked down, and in the morning the bank was all in an uproar. All the money had been stolen from the vault in the night, and there was no trace of the theives. I've never seen anything like it before or since.” He lifted his mug and drained the beer. He stood up. “I better get back before morning. Thanks, pal.” He turned to the door of the bar.

“Wait!” The bartender had never stopped the gargoyle before, but he had to know.

The gargoyle turned back in the doorway. “Yes?” Somehow it had an ominous sound, and the bartender wondered if this was such a good idea. He asked his question anyway.

“Why didn't you report what you'd seen?”

The gargoyle laughed. “Me? Report it? Who would listen? No one thinks I'm alive besides you. You're the only one in the whole town, and I'm lucky you take payment for beer in dead pigeons. Me? Report it?” He went out the door, chuckling.

I am glad for the rain. It feels like tears on my stone cheeks. Inside, I am always crying for you.The people below.

The mother screaming for her lost child, looking searching and I unable to shift my head, I scream with her. She finds him, but I am not placated. What if he runs off again?

The man on the steps holding his head in his hands and sobbing, sobbing and shaking over an empty briefcase. He does not even reach for an umbrella, not that he could afford one, but he likes the rain like I like the rain. We stone faces which cannot cry without it.

I see the trees, full and green then nested, then gold, then old, then gone. They all pass before me in flashes. Time has no meaning, no passage to me. I see everything at once.

I know you cannot see the way I do. The mother reunited with her child. The man who finds hope in a rainbow. That is why you smile.

I look down on the worldThe glory of the sunThe deepness in the shadowsAnd I see what the world isWhat the world once wasAnd what it could be

I remember a timeWhen this buildingI sit uponWas the only large building around

The world around me was greenThe people around me took care of itThe trees breathed life into everything elseAnd the sky seemed brighter then.The sun warmed my skin all day longI miss that warmth

Then all the greenWas torn down around meMore brick and mortarAnd wooden arches rose upThe sun was blocked from my gazeNow only warming my skin for a few short hours at a timeI don't ever feel as warm

The world around me is mostly gray nowThe people around me seem to ignore itGoing about, paying no mindJust going someplace or anotherNever stoppingThis is how the world is

I dream of the world becoming moreI see between the gray to an open sunrise in the morning.The beauty in the distance...Oh I wish these wings could flyHow I long to be a part of the world green again...Where the people looked at each otherWhere they saw more than just the next taskWhere they enjoyed the process as much as the success.

A:"You said this is where they came?" B:"That red brick house, yeah." A:"Well this gargoyle must've seen it all. We'll put the camera in his mouth."B:"But how're you gonna get down there?"A:"Hold on to my belt. And don't try anything!"Gargoyle:"HEY! Don't put that thing in my mouth!!"A&B:"Holy ****!!!"

The myth about "turning to stone in the sun" started around the same time the "make that face and your face will freeze like that" myth. Anyone would get sick of being called a gargoyle--a reference to the sound they couldn't help but make--and no one ever asked the correct term, how the knobby knee'd, beclawed creatures referred to themselves. Instead, humans just screamed at the sight the winged terrors, and in self-defense, they took to perching. Above the average human's line of vision, high enough to avoid being defiled and with the bonus feature of being able to watch the behavior of people when they are not screaming or fighting for dear life. But the occasional mistreatment of the creatures continued somewhat, and so they began to make gruesome faces to amuse the children and get the adult humans to leave them alone.

His story is our story. Always present, never seen. Eyes always open, never seeing. We rush through our lives and miss the great moments. He sits still and doesn't experience anything. He is made of stone, and so many of us have hearts made of stone. He has witnessed generations of people who were unafraid to live, unafraid to love. Generations of people who took advantage of the few opportunities available to them. We, we have endless opportunities. And we sit idly by, our generation's gargoyles, unable to live, unable to love.

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